


Show Me

by Brinady



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fever, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Sings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Monster of the Week, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Possibly Pre-Slash, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinady/pseuds/Brinady
Summary: In which the witcher takes too many potions in order to save the injured bard, and the two have to rely on each other when the going gets tough.OrA thinly-veiled excuse to mercilessly whump both Geralt and Jaskier and force them to take care of each other in ways carefully designed to melt your heart.
Comments: 65
Kudos: 563





	1. Excess Baggage

Geralt and Jaskier rode single file down a narrow path through the swamp, Geralt leading on Roach, of course, and the bard on an as-yet unnamed mule.

The mule had been an unwelcome gift to the witcher-- an alternate form of payment, rather-- and Geralt had decided he would, until he could sell it, use it to carry excess baggage. 

Jaskier had subsequently made a compelling and _lengthy_ argument to the effect that _he_ qualified as excess baggage. Geralt had finally agreed, but less as a matter of persuasion and more one of capitulation. 

At the moment there were also two gruesome beaked heads tied to either side of the squat, muscular animal. Jaskier was inclined to complain about the black blood dripping from them onto his good boots, but for once he decided to keep his peace. 

Geralt had returned from the hunt bloody and sporting the black eyes and veins of a witcher still under the influence of potions. He was, at best, _prickly_ under such circumstances and this time he seemed agitated beyond the normal. 

Jaskier’s worry had mounted when Geralt actually _permitted_ him to quickly bandage a few of his wounds as he was tying up the trophies, before insisting that they get on the road immediately.

They had been riding in silence for several minutes now through the unnaturally quiet wetland and the bard’s anxiety was starting to get the better of him.

“Geralt?” He asked quietly.

Not quietly enough, apparently.

The witcher snapped a hand up, one finger raised in an order for silence. He didn’t look back. 

Jaskier blew out a nervous sigh and peered into the dim marsh that surrounded them. It was mid afternoon, but might as well be dusk for the way the sunlight struggled to filter through the thick foliage. _Geralt can see._ He told himself _. He’ll get us through safely._

Ahead, Roach stopped and whinnied so loudly that Geralt flinched as the sound assaulted his enhanced hearing. The horse’s ears were pricked forward in alarm and she tossed her head and side-stepped, refusing to go forward. 

Jaskier thought he heard Geralt mutter something unintelligible and he put his hand out toward her neck. A 'sign'? The bard didn't know if the witcher had magics for anything other than combat. He'd have to ask-- later. The horse snorted and lowered her head, plodding onward once again. _Interesting._

Predictably, Jaskier’s mule stopped at the same spot. Planting its stocky legs wide, it refused to budge.

“Geralt…” Jaskier called again.

“ _Shhhh_.” The witcher hissed.

“Geralt-- the mule…” he whispered.

The witcher looked back. 

_“F#* &.” _

He reined in Roach. “Jaskier, listen.” He said so quietly that the bard had to strain to hear. “I need you to dismount, _slowly_. Then come over here.” He extended a gloved hand. The glistening black eyes added an alarming degree of intensity to the order. 

Jaskier nodded. There were only a few meters separating them, but the path was too narrow for Roach to turn around. 

He leaned forward, slowly bringing his right leg up and over the mule’s rump, careful not to jostle the trophies tied there. 

He was looking at Geralt’s face when he saw the witcher’s eyes dart to the side, “ _Fu---”_

Something crashed into Jaskier from behind.

He and the mule were hurled toward the right side of the path. 

He felt a white-hot tearing sensation.

He heard more than felt a splash.

Then there was nothing at all.


	2. Monster

Jaskier awoke to a dull aching throb in his head and back.

He stifled a groan and opened his eyes... 

...to nothing.

No-- _almost_ nothing.

He squinted, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. 

It was the swamp, he realized. The same hulking trees were now looming shadows outlined only by the faintest glimmer of moonlight. He was sitting leaned against one of those trees, on an island of comparative dryness with murky waters glinting lazily all around. 

That explained the unpleasant dampness infusing his clothes and capturing the chill of the night air, but he still had no memory of how he got to this place…

They’d been on a path through the swamp...he thought he could make it out about a dozen meters away...and something had happened. He squinted again. He could just glimpse the outline of a mound on the path, it could almost be the shape of a...

...dead mule.

The last few seconds on the road returned to Jaskier in a rush and he sat up straight, intending to get to his feet. 

The wave of searing pain that suddenly burst from his left leg completely destroyed that plan.

He hissed and hunched over the wounded limb. 

His lower thigh had been cut deep and not at all cleanly. There was a blood-soaked bandage tied very sloppily across the large laceration. Hastily done though it was, it must have been tight enough to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t imagine he’d have survived the wound otherwise. 

It had to have been Geralt’s handiwork. 

Which begged the question: 

Where was the witcher?

Jaskier forced himself to sit back against the tree, white-knuckling a nearby root as he wrestled with the pain. He fought for a few moments to control his breathing and finally found the focus needed to continue inspecting his dim surroundings. 

The deep shadows didn’t reveal much. No glistening fangs or claws promising monsters ready to eat him, but also no witcher. 

“Geralt?” He called, questioningly.

To his alarm, a muffled hiss came from almost directly behind him.

“Geralt, is that you?” He asked nervously.

The reply started with a soft groan, “Gods... _please_ , bard...quiet.” Came an agonized whisper.

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he twisted to the side to look, but the tree was large and his leg would not let him turn very far.

“Geralt?” he whispered this time, “What’s wrong? Is the beast still out there?” He reflexively pressed himself closer to the tree trunk, as if that would make him less of a target to a nocturnal predator.

“No…” an unpleasant sound in between a cough and a retch followed, “It’s dead.”

“You’re injured as well, then?” Jaskier ventured. It was clearly not a question of ‘if’ but of ‘how badly.’

“No…” came the shaky whisper. “...not...much, anyway.”

_So ‘yes’ and ‘quite badly.’_ The bard mentally reinterpreted. 

“Can I at least have a look at the state of you?” he asked in a strained whisper. “Gods, Geralt, I don’t even know if you’ve still got all your limbs.”

“No.” The soft growl held so much pain.

“‘No’- I can’t look at you, or ‘no’ - you haven’t got all your limbs?” Panicked, he accidentally let a little voice back into the whisper.

“ _Please…”_ Geralt rasped, genuine desperation in his almost-voice, “...too loud.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier rejoined after a moment with his smallest whisper, “please tell me what’s wrong...this...isn’t normal…” The cold fear that had been a small knot in his stomach was starting to flood through his system.

There was silence from Geralt for a worrying length of time before the barely audible reply, “I had to take...more potions...to finish that last monster…” more coughing interrupted the explanation, “Too many potions.” Jaskier waited for further information but there was just rustling and pained grunts.

The bard tried to fill in the rest. “So...potions are toxic to humans...as you’ve not failed to remind me, _frequently._ Too many potions...are toxic to a witcher?”

“Yeah…” came the tortured reply.

“So you _poisoned yourself_ in order to kill the last monster?”

“ _Nnnng.”_ A stifled cry of agony seemed to echo amidst the tree branches. The rustling, scratching sounds could only be the witcher writhing in pain. There was a moment of stillness, “It was going to eat you.” The whisper sounded exhausted, “Seemed like a...good plan at the time…”

“I...I see…” Jaskier gulped, “So...what’s the plan now? Is there a special potion to cure the poison from the other potions?”

“If only…” There was another bout of retching and fast breaths, “No...have to ride it out...Hasn’t killed me yet so...probably won’t.”

“ _Probably?!”_ It took all of Jaskier’s willpower to maintain the whisper. “Geralt, this is no time for jokes.”

There was no reply.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?” It was almost a whimper.

“Geralt, can I please _see_ what we’re dealing with here?” he swallowed, “I'd never forgive myself if you _died_ three feet behind me and I didn't do a thing to help.”

More coughing shook the tree before Geralt ventured, “It’ll just… frighten you.” He sounded weak but resolved. 

“Geralt, I _am_ frightened. Possibly the most frightened I’ve ever been, but not of _you_ . I’m frightened _for you,_ Geralt.” He sighed, “Please, just _show me_?” He extended an open hand behind him toward the witcher.

There was a moment of silence, then a rustle. And then _something_ latched onto his hand. He twisted to the side to look.

The hand grasping his was deathly pale, but for numerous dark black veins lacing it. The fingernails were covered in black-- no, the black substance was oozing from under and around them...it took Jaskier too long to realize that it was viscous black blood. The hand was far too hot and the fingers felt unnaturally tight, as if each small muscle was caught in a never-ending cramp. 

Despite the knot of horror in his stomach, Jaskier squeezed the hand reassuringly. 

From the murkiness behind the tree, the hulking shadow of the witcher lurched into view as he rolled toward his injured companion. Geralt caught himself on his other hand and looked up at Jaskier through strands of bloody silver hair. 

It was true, Jaskier realized-- the face was a terror to behold. 

Pitch black eyes radiated black veins and dripped black tears. Cracked lips, also bleeding black, were drawn back in an almost feral grimace that could easily be taken for a snarl. Jaskier understood, now, how the witcher could be called a monster. If he stumbled across such a sight in the swamp at night he would absolutely assume that his remaining minutes of life were numbered. 

But this was no monster. 

It was his friend suffering unimaginable pain, and that as a direct consequence of saving his life.

Drawing on all of his skills as a performer, Jaskier stuffed down the horror and pity and guilt inspired by that face and plastered on a warm smile. 

“See,” he whispered, “Not terrified.” 

A look that was somewhat akin to relief seemed to cross the witcher’s face before he collapsed forward, catching his forehead on his arm, and coughed long and violently before slumping listless onto his side. 

The bard moved his hand to rest on the back of Geralt’s head. “Is there anything I can do?” He was accustomed to feeling helpless in _comparison_ to the witcher, but now he realized that feeling helpless to aid his friend was far, far worse.

Geralt paused for so long that Jaskier wasn’t sure the witcher had heard him.

“I’ll probably...” he finally said, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain, “...pass out soon. Make sure I don’t choke?” Geralt asked.

“Of course, Geralt.” He stroked the tangled hair and picked some swamp-muck out of it. “Isn't there anything else?”

He waited for a response that didn’t come.

“Geralt?” the bard asked softly.

Nothing.

He picked up the witcher’s closest hand and squeezed it again. “ _Geralt.”_ he whispered more harshly, to no effect.

He took a long look at the unnaturally pale face, streaked and stained black with blood and bile, and listened to the ragged breathing. 

_Yeah, we’re going to do better than this,_ the bard told himself. 

He gritted his teeth tightly as he scooted a couple inches closer to Geralt’s head. The small movement sent nauseating waves of pain shooting through his leg, but he bore with it. He shrugged off his doublet, revisiting the comparatively minor pain in his back, and folded it up in his lap. Finally, he levered the unresponsive witcher’s head up into his lap, keeping it tilted to the side where he could keep his promise and ensure his friend didn’t choke. 

Jaskier sighed and carefully drew strands of filthy silver hair away from the witcher’s face-- still etched with black veins. Even unconscious, the witcher’s countenance radiated suffering. 

He leaned back against the tree, allowing the weight of the head in his lap to slowly numb his tortured leg. 

A tremor ran through the witcher, and Jaskier stroked his head until it abated. He didn’t figure the gesture actually got through to his friend, but it felt good to be doing something. 

“You’ll be alright, Geralt…” he whispered, mostly to reassure himself, “I _know_ you’ll be alright…” He didn't, though...not really... "You _have_ to be alright."

It was going to be a long night.


	3. Mule's Dead

Jaskier awoke this time to the sensation of being _lifted._

It was an unusual feeling, and one that would usually demand most of his attention. Except that an ungodly amount of pain was also vying for that attention and the pain was definitely winning.

The problem was, his head was fuzzy either way. ‘Fuzzy?’ That might not be the right word. He was having trouble thinking of words. That was part of the problem. Or it was the problem... 

He grimaced.

Why was he being carried? Didn’t he have something he was supposed to be doing? It had been important... _gods,_ his leg was on _fire_...no, he’d been looking after his...--

“Geralt! You’re alright! ” He exclaimed, opening his eyes to dirty black armor and muddy white hair. 

“You’re awake.” The familiar voice was strong again, and filled with relief. “Hold still. I’m going to get you onto Roach.”

“Roach?” Jaskier mused, then cried out softly as one of the witcher’s steps jostled his leg ( _gods,_ how could it hurt so much and still be attached to his body?). “Surely not Roach…” He said, pondering. “I had a mule...ohhhhh…” the events of the previous night started filtering haphazardly through his mind. “Mule’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Mule’s dead.” Geralt confirmed. There were some sloppy splashing sounds as Geralt waded through some of the swamp muck to get back to the road. He stumbled a few times, but managed to keep his feet, and keep the passenger slung over his shoulder out of the water. 

Jaskier was grateful. Despite the burning pain of his leg, the air felt chill and he shivered slightly. The idea of getting dipped in water seemed absolutely dreadful. 

It took the witcher a couple tries to climb up the bank onto the trail. 

_He survived the toxic potions..._ the worrying thought crossed the bard’s mind... _but maybe he’s not fully recovered yet…_

“I’m recovered enough.” Geralt grumbled, and heaved Jaskier upward, sitting him sideways on Roach’s saddle.

Jaskier gasped at the sudden pain and swayed dizzily, but Geralt held him steady. “I said that out loud?” He finally queried in a weak voice. 

“You did.” Geralt frowned deeply, then reached up to palm the bard’s forehead. “ _F# &$. _Fever’s worse.”

“Fever…” Jaskier repeated blearily. That seemed about right.

“Here.” Geralt took the bard’s hand and placed it on his own shoulder, then held him by the waist with one hand while he guided Jaskier’s good leg up and over the withers and pommel so that he was sitting astride Roach. The position was neither better nor worse for the injured leg--it just kept burning. But sitting higher up with neither tree nor witcher for shelter was exposing him to more of that chill breeze. The shivering started to grow worse. 

Geralt saw it and cursed under his breath. He dug into his saddlebags and produced a large black cloak, which he promptly draped over the bard’s shoulders and wrapped around his shaking form. 

“Better?” The witcher asked, looking up at the bard. 

Jaskier nodded, though the shivering hadn’t completely abated. “Th-thanks.” He said with an attempt at a smile. _Geralt can be so kind sometimes._

Geralt gave him a suspicious look, one eyebrow raised.

_I didn’t say that out loud too, did I? F#* &ing fever… _

“Can you stay upright for a moment?” He asked the bard. “I need to get some things from the mule.”

“Mule’s dead…” Jaskier repeated. He wasn’t sure why he said it… his brain and his mouth were not cooperating today. Blame it on the fever. 

“Yes, Jaskier. The mule’s dead.” 

_He looks worried. That’s not good. He never looks worried._

“Stay-- both of you.” He pointed at them and then strode purposely behind them.

Jaskier heard shifting and clanking as Geralt hurried to claim any essentials from the dead mule’s saddle bags. The saddle would be a loss, but it had been a pretty terrible saddle in Jaskier’s not so professional opinion. He wanted to turn and watch what Geralt was doing, but he reckoned that would be a good way to fall off the horse and he didn’t want to see Geralt’s worried, disappointed face again. 

_Nobody wants that, right Roach?_ He leaned forward, _juuuuust a little_ , to stroke the horse on the neck. Her hair was so _warm_ ...and his hands were so _cold._ Maybe if he could just…

“Hey.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. “I told you to stay upright.”

Jaskier blinked.

He had slumped forward onto Roach’s neck. How had that happened?

Geralt’s hands pushed him straight again, which was good, because he wasn’t entirely sure he had the strength to do it himself. His muscles _ached_. Well, except for the ones in his leg, which just _screamed_ instead.

His eyes wandered back to Geralt, who was staring at him with that frown. _Worried face again...I swear that’s worse than ‘scary face’ or ‘monster face...’_

He realized he’d done it again when he saw Geralt’s expression go ice cold, and the witcher turned away wordlessly and started loading things into the saddle bags. 

_Damnit_. “Geralt _no_. I don’t...I didn’t mean it.” 

Geralt reached up and wrapped another blanket (had it been the mule’s saddle blanket?) around his shoulders. “I know you didn’t.” The witcher patted him on the shoulder and went to tie the monster heads onto the back of the saddle. But his voice had been...resigned...and he didn’t look the bard in the eye.

_F#*#._ Jaskier felt tears spring unbidden to the corners of his eyes. _Why can’t I just tell him he’s the best person I’ve ever known? That he’s strong and noble and kind and I don’t give a f#*% what his face looks like when he’s killing monsters or saving my gods damned life…_ he sighed... _damned fever..._

Beside him the witcher stiffened a bit, but finished his packing work and stepped up to Roach’s head. He rubbed her forehead affectionately and said a few quiet words to her that Jaskier couldn't hear, before looping her reins over her head so he could grasp them beneath her chin. 

“We’re going.” The witcher said, turning to Jaskier and regarding his glassy eyes with clear ones. “I need to get you to a healer, _yesterday._ ” 

“What about you?” Jaskier asked in a slightly slurred voice. This was his first sight of the whole of Geralt and the witcher was still an unhealthy shade of alabaster. He was also sporting several partially healed wounds and the bard’s bleary eyes thought they detected a limp.

“ _Me?_ ” The witcher asked with a frown that said he really hadn’t thought about it. He grimaced, “All I need’s a f#*$ing _meal.”_

Jaskier thought back to the hacking and retching from the night before and winced.

“Now, for the love of gods and women, Jaskier-- prove that you can _stay on top of the horse_.”

He walked Roach a few steps forward while still looking back at the bard, making sure he could be trusted not to keel over instantaneously.

Jaskier let the weight of the heavy fabric center him, and Roach’s gait was surprisingly smooth, only adding a cadence to the pounding pain in his leg rather than increasing it. 

Satisfied, the witcher turned forward and led the horse down the narrow road. 

“You won’t ride with me?” Jaskier asked, belatedly. He remembered galloping across the countryside behind Geralt as his throat swelled and blood filled his lungs. He was rather glad not to be repeating that experience, no matter how badly his leg needed treatment.

Geralt shook his head. “Too much extra gear. Roach is tired and hungry. And my legs tangling with yours could split that wound right open and kill you.” He explained.

Jaskier gulped at that. 

“Yeah,” Apparently it had been a loud gulp, “Same goes for falling off.” Geralt added. “So _don’t_.” 

“How far is it to the next village?” Jaskier queried softly, watching the witcher trudge onward at a fast pace. _Yeah, that’s definitely a limp_ , he observed to himself.

“Couple miles.” The witcher replied. It had the tone of a lie, but Jaskier decided not to call him on it. 

He watched Geralt’s back, noting the sway of the now dry, but still filthy, hair as it moved in time with the syncopated rhythm of his limp. His gaze drifted to Roach’s ears. They bobbed down a bit with each footfall. _She’s at ease_. He thought. _Not like before…_. He remembered the poor mule’s stubborn terror, it’s big floppy ears pinned back against its head in defiance. _He had known his fate before his rider had._ Jaskier shook his head but the movement made him dizzy. He focused on the ears again. 

“Sing something.” Said Geralt.

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ” Jaskier asked. Startled, he sat up straighter.

“A song, bard. Better than your incoherent muttering.” The witcher didn’t look back as he spoke.

“I…” he thought about it, “...don’t have my lute.”

“It’s tied behind you. You think I’d leave it? You fawn over it like it’s your child.”

Jaskier felt tears welling up again. “You _do_ care…”

“Leave off, Jaskier.” The witcher waved a hand dismissively without looking back. “Do you want to play or no?”

“I…” the bard looked at his hands...though much of him had warmed up, they were still shaking… “...had better not.”

“Then sing.”

“You’re...uncommonly keen for some entertainment.”

“I’m not ‘keen’ for anything. It’s in all our best interests that _you_ stay _conscious_.”

“Fine then.” Jaskier paused to clear his throat, then began:

“ _When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this soooooong.”_

Geralt had winced visibly at the opening line. “ _That one_?” He growled.

“I’m sorry, are you planning on _paying_ for my musical services today?”

Geralt actually bothered to turn his head and fix the bard with a sour glare. 

“I thought not, and you know what they say-- ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’ I happen to be quite fond of this song, I'll have you know, despite your numerous objections.”

Geralt growled something under his breath and Jaskier returned a fever-bright grin. 

_“Toss a coin to your witcher,_

_O valley of plenty, o-o-ohhh.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide what Jaskier did and did not say aloud.


	4. Nothing

Jaskier dreamed.

Or...he thought he dreamed.

It was becoming increasingly hard to tell.

There was yelling-- quite a bit of yelling-- some directed at him, most directed elsewhere. He’d heard Geralt angry before, but this was something new. 

He was being carried. Not slung over a shoulder, but cradled. It was like how his father held him when he was a boy and had fallen out of a tree and hit his head. He wanted to hug the person holding him now like he had hugged his father then, but he couldn’t.

He was on Roach and Geralt kept telling him to keep singing. Why did he want so many songs? Didn’t he know how tired he was? A bard could only sing for so long before his voice needed a rest. 

A rest...that would be good. 

Geralt’s face was so worried all the time. “It’ll be ok.” He wanted to say. But his brain and mouth, at odds for some time, had decided not to cooperate at all anymore. 

The undercurrent of pain ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it spiked, and all Jaskier could see was pain: white-hot and all-consuming. But sometimes it trickled away and nestled somewhere deep and distant.

Geralt paced and paced. He was like a caged beast- angry, frustrated, powerless. 

_He’s not a monster_. The memory of Geralt badly poisoned floated to mind. _But sometimes he thinks he is. Sometimes others think he is. How can i make him believe it’s not true…?_

Over all the dreams there was a vague sense of the passage of time. It was like sleeping late into the day, almost waking up, but then telling himself he could sleep _juuuust a little longer_ \-- again and again and again and... 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what finally inspired him to _actually_ wake up, but slowly he felt the fog of confusion roll away and found himself blinking up at the angled timbers of the ceiling of a tiny room.

“Where...?” He tried to say. It instead came out as a dry wheeze. Gods, his throat was parched. 

He tilted his head fractionally, taking in the room that was barely the size of a closet. In the corner by his bed, not more than a few feet away, was a heap of crumpled black cloak, from which a pair of keen amber eyes stared unblinking. 

The witcher leaned forward and reached a pale hand to Jaskier’s brow. The hand felt neither cool nor warm.

“Ah, _thank f*# &._” The witcher breathed a massive sigh of relief and slumped against the wall, eyes closed. “Fever finally broke.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier choked out. He took a look at his friend with clear eyes for the first time in...well, he hated to think how long…

The witcher looked _rough_. In fact, he looked not much different than he had on the trail when they’d left the swamp-- unhealthy pallor, hair unkempt, clothes still stained with blood and gore. At least the untended wounds appeared to have scabbed over somewhat. But Geralt always healed so much more quickly...what had happened…? 

“Are you alright, Geralt?” He tried leaning to the side to reach out for the witcher but found both that he was hopelessly tangled in blankets and that he was weaker than he ever remembered feeling. 

The witcher was there at once pressing him back down into the small bed. Jaskier noticed his hands shaking just a little and wondered if it was from relief or exhaustion. “ _Don’t move_ , bard. I’m _fine._ ” He took a cup from the floor beside the bed. “Here.” He put a hand behind Jaskier’s head and lifted it gently. “Drink.” 

The cool water was heaven on his parched throat. He drained the glass without thinking and gave a contented sigh. “Thanks.” His voice was still a bit weak but at least it was working. “Now you.” He nodded toward Geralt.

“Me?” The witcher asked, cocking his head slightly and giving Jaskier a frown that said he was reconsidering whether or not the bard was actually lucid.

“Have a drink. You look like you could use one.” 

Geralt scowled, but refilled the glass and tipped it back in one swig. 

Jaskier nodded in satisfaction. “I’m almost afraid to ask…” he said “...but how long has it been?”

Geralt grimaced and sat back against the wall, elbows on his knees. “Three days.” He said at last, eyes closed.

“ _Three…_ ” Jaskier's eyes were wide. “It was that bad?”

“It was,” He hung his head and clenched his fists, “I was almost too late.” His voice sounded angry-- angry at himself, Jaskier realized. 

“Geralt, none of this was your fault, surely you must realize that. I mean, you _saved_ me from _being eaten._ Now, of the two of us, you’re the only one with actual _experience_ in the ‘being eaten alive’ department so I should probably defer to your expertise, but I’m just going to go ahead and say, no - _d_ _eclare_ , that ‘ _never being eaten by a monster’_ is one of my foremost life goals, right up there with ‘spend a night of ecstasy with an actual queen’, and ‘write a ballad that is played in every royal court on the continent’.

Geralt at least gave a dismissive snort in response. “Say what you will,” he said, not looking up. “It was too close. I should have been more careful.”

“Well _I_ , for one, am grateful for the amount of careful that you _were_ , because without it, I’d be another casualty of that foul swamp, just like the poor mule.”

“Hm,” It seemed a bit of a concession. His fists unclenched and he let his hands hang. They still appeared to be shaking a bit. The witcher looked exhausted. 

“Geralt, you have _eaten_ in the past three days, haven’t you? Have you slept at all?” It was beginning to become apparent why he still looked so ill after all this time. 

“Hm.” Was the witcher’s only reply. In this case, it was the particular version of Geralt’s favorite noise that meant ‘I’m not going to answer your questions because I’m a stubborn _arse_.’

“Geralt, you need to _take care_ of yourself. You can't just--”

“No,” his head came back up, “it’s not...you don’t understand.”

“Then, by all means, enlighten me.”

Geralt blew out a frustrated growl. “We’re not welcome here.”

“What?”

“Well, _I’m_ not welcome here. You by association.” 

_Ah, the witcher 'image problem' again._ “So how…?” Jaskier looked around. They were definitely at an inn, though this tiny room was most likely kept for temporary staff or transient guests with little coin. He vaguely recalled his dreams about an angry, shouting witcher. “...what happened, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed, but began, “When we got here...you were pretty far gone. The villagers tried to turn us away. I had to …persuade them. Forced the alderman to trade for the trophies. Forced the innkeep to give us a room and fetch the healer. Spent the coin on the healer’s services and supplies. There wasn’t even a mage or a doctor in the whole town, just a healer. Knew his craft well enough, though, despite being terrified of me.” Geralt shook his head. “Cowards, the lot of them. I’ve heard them a few times discussing whether or not to come and try to kill me. They’d rather take you hostage first, though, to put me at a disadvantage.”

Jaskier was staring open-mouthed. Geralt was right-- he _hadn’t_ understood. 

“Plan is to get away from here as soon as you can ride.” He nodded toward Jaskier’s leg. “Roach is alright. I was able to check on her a couple times while the locals were asleep. Gave the stable boy the last of the coin to look after her. He seems an honest lad.” 

_Trust you to look after me and Roach before yourself._ The bard thought wryly. “So you’ve been standing guard against murderous townsfolk and taking care of my leg this whole time?” 

Geralt grunted and looked away. 

“I’m...really sorry, Geralt.”

“Not your fault.”

“Well, I’m sorry nonetheless.” He reached out a hand, finally free of blankets, and rested it on the witcher’s shoulder.

Geralt didn’t meet his gaze.

“Look, I’ve still got some silvers in the top compartment of my lute case,” he pointed to the instrument in the opposite corner of the room, “from that time I played Alexander’s court, remember?” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe some coin will change the innkeeper’s tune?”

Geralt frowned, “I really think that ship has sailed.”

“Come _on_. It couldn’t hurt to _try_. See if he’ll take payment for this sorry excuse for a room and maybe see his way to selling you some supper? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you _really_ look like you could use a meal or _three_. A bath, too, for that matter, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Hmm.” Geralt scowled, but reached over for the lute case, found the compartment and extracted a couple coins. “Worth a try. And you need more than water to get your strength back.” He nodded to himself and then stood, swaying noticeably before steadying himself against the small door.

“Good luck!”

“Hm.” Geralt opened the small door, ducked through, and quickly closed it behind him. 

Jaskier heard the squeak of stairs, then, almost immediately, raised voices. The voices were followed by a few crashes and some gasps of surprise. Finally there were some oddly crunch-like sounds, a couple of screams, and then silence.

The witcher walked back in the door as quickly and silently as he had left.

“Soooooo...that went well!” Jaskier hazarded, and offered a hopeful grin. 

“Hm,” the witcher grunted, “Turns out it _could_ hurt to try.” He said, wiping at a trickle of blood running down from his eyebrow as he lowered himself gracelessly to the floor once again.

“ _Geralt_!” 

“They accused me of stealing the coin. Decided it was a good excuse to jump me. At least I didn’t have to kill any of them.” He shrugged, “And I took a page out of your book.” He withdrew three quarters of a loaf of bread from the folds of his cloak, looking just a tiny bit pleased with himself. “It came to hand while I was dodging barstools.”

“Well _done_!” Jaskier enthused, at least as much to encourage his friend as in genuine pleasure at the prospect of some food. 

Geralt handed Jaskier the bread and sat back against the door.

The bard tore the bread in half and tried to hand a piece back to the witcher.

He pushed the hand away.

“ _Geralt_. You need this as much as I do.”

“Not true.” The witcher replied in a voice that was more tired than angry. “You’re human and recovering from a serious injury. You need the energy.”

“Well you’re almost human and you’re recovering from poisoning and _many_ serious injuries yourself. For example, your chest appears to be bleeding, _right now_.”

“Hm?” The witcher looked curious, and not remotely alarmed. He probed his chest in a few places and found the fresh blood eventually. 

“Ah. It’s old.” He said simply, wiping the bloody fingers on his shirt. “Just re-opened.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you at least going to tend to it?” Jaskier pointed to the bleeding wound.

Geralt looked about to object, but then just rolled his eyes. He took a cloth from a pile of rags beside the bed, dipped it in the basin of water, and pulled up his shirt to reveal not one, but more than half a dozen cuts in various stages of attempted healing, not to mention the mottling of many discolored bruises. He scrubbed roughly at the single bleeding cut, then slathered a bit of ointment on it, and slapped a small and obviously useless bit of bandage on top before lowering his shirt. He did it all while maintaining aggressive eye contact with the bard. 

“Satisfied?” He growled.

“Hardly, but I can tell when your patience is wearing thin, and I’d rather not be a victim of your sleep-deprived wrath…”

“You’ve learned.” Geralt’s tone was mean and rather smug.

Jaskier gave a dramatic sigh of defeat. “How about this.” He said, taking one of the halves of bread and tearing it in half. “Will you at least take this much?” He asked, making it sound as though only a proper fool wouldn’t accept.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, eyed the piece, and then took it. 

“Progress!” Jaskier raised the smaller of his pieces as if toasting his success, and then took a bite. It was a rich, nutty loaf, and in that particular moment it was suddenly the most wonderful thing the bard had ever tasted. He’d had no idea how hungry he was until the bread was on his tongue and then he could hardly get enough.

He glanced over at Geralt only to see that his portion had already vanished. He would have accused the witcher of spiriting it away, but for a few telltale crumbs on his shirt. _And I thought_ I _was hungry..._ he thought, guiltily. He considered trying to share more bread, but realized it would likely be an exercise in mutual frustration, so he savored the simple meal and accepted more water as the witcher offered it. 

While Jaskier ate, Geralt moved to the foot of the bed and lifted up the lower corner of the blankets to reveal the bard’s injured leg. He seemed to be moving by rote, as though he’d repeated the same actions dozens of times. Jaskier noticed for the first time the pile of used bandages and rags by the foot of the bed. He _had_ done it dozens of times-- checking the wound, cleaning and re-bandaging it as it slowly began to heal. 

As Jaskier watched, Geralt carefully lifted the edges of the bandage along the length of the cut and nodded slightly to himself, looking quite relieved. 

Jaskier recalled the worried face that had haunted his ‘dreams.’ _He was so deeply worried for so long..._ the bard pondered... _he’s entirely unused to that. No wonder he’s in such a mood. On top of being in sore need of food and rest and time to heal…_

He shook his head as he chewed.

He ached to help the witcher, but, like in the swamp, he felt powerless to do so. At the moment doing his best to heal and get back his strength was all he could do to help.

Geralt replaced the blankets and then leaned forward to palm the bard’s forehead.

“Excuse you.” Jaskier reprimanded with a grin.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted. He nodded in satisfaction and finding the fever hadn’t returned. “Before dawn.” He said, moving back to sit in front of the door.

“What’s before dawn?” Jaskier asked, mouth half full of bread.

“We leave.” The witcher stretched out slowly, with a few small grunts of pain, and lay down in front of the door, his head close to the head of the small bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll wake you.” He moved his arm up in order to rest his head on it, but winced as the movement pulled on various cuts. He abandoned the attempt and lay still. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly after several long moments had passed.

“Hm?”

“Thank you, truly-- for looking after me...when I was...you know...out of it.”

Geralt grunted softly. “You did the same for me.” He muttered it so quietly Jaskier almost thought he imagined it.

“What?” The bard asked.

“Nothing.” Geralt said, and rolled over stiffly to face the wall. 

“Right…” Jaskier trailed off. 

But he stared up at the dim ceiling and smiled to himself.

_You too, Geralt. You too..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, you may have noticed that this was going to be the final chapter, but now it isn't.  
> I know-- I'm sorry.  
> I really was going to end it here, but their situation still kind of sucks and while I enjoy a bittersweet ending, a somewhat more heartwarming one kind of materialized while I was working on this scene, so there you have it-- one more chapter forthcoming.


	5. Rest

“It’s time.” Jaskier felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see a dim candle flickering nearby. 

He looked up to see the witcher, already in his armor and cloak, looming over him. An ungloved hand reached for his forehead. The hand was surprisingly warm, though Jaskier didn’t have time to ponder the implications of that. 

“Hm.” Geralt said softly, the sound conveying satisfaction once again. He quickly replaced the glove, then leaned down and whispered to Jaskier. “Too soon for you to put weight on that leg, -- over the shoulder again.”

“ _Geralt…_ ” Jaskier had the presence of mind to keep the whine to a whisper. He made to sit up and Geralt helped him. 

“I need my sword arm free in case we run into trouble.” He freed the bard from the sheets, helped him into his boots and doublet, and quickly wrapped him back up in the saddle blanket.

Jaskier found that he felt...well...still weak, but a little bit stronger. The leg definitely hurt when moved, but it wasn’t that all-consuming hellfire pain any more, thank the gods.

“Ready?” Geralt asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He knelt and leaned the bard over his shoulder and then stood. 

Or tried to.

Jaskier felt muscles straining and was jostled from side to side as Geralt staggered, trying to get both feet underneath him. He ended up using the bed-post for support as he finally made it to his feet. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly, worried.

The witcher was breathing hard.

“‘S alright.” Geralt panted, “Stable’s not far.” 

From his new vantage Jaskier saw that the tiny room was now empty of the lute and their other scant belongings. Geralt had already been up and making preparations. 

The witcher blew out the candle and then ducked them awkwardly through the small door. 

Everything was dark and silent as Geralt carried him through the main room of the dingy little inn. 

Despite his exhaustion, Geralt moved silently as a ghost. Only the slight creak of the inn’s front door betrayed their exit. 

He navigated by moonlight to a nearby building that was clearly a stable. Just inside, Roach waited, her reins held by a nervous looking teenage boy.

Geralt nodded to the youth and grunted as he helped Jaskier into the saddle, checking to make sure he was secure and still thoroughly blanketed. 

The witcher turned to the lad and handed him a coin in exchange for the reins. The boy gave a hesitant smile, and Geralt patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks.” He whispered. 

The boy nodded and then slunk away.

Geralt nodded up at Jaskier and then led Roach out of the stable and off into the night.

* * *

Long hours saw the bard and witcher far from the village and still on the road. It was a sparsely used trail, apparently, but mercifully flat and they had encountered few travelers and no monsters. 

Jaskier talked and sang at intervals. He was still tired and not especially strong, but Roach was a gentle mount when she wanted to be, and with little pain and no fever the bard was content to ride and entertain as long as necessary.

Geralt seldom responded, now, even to the wittiest jibes. He pushed onward with grim determination, his pace not slackening even as his limp grew more pronounced with the passing miles. 

He was starting to falter, though, Jaskier couldn’t fail to observe. 

The witcher would occasionally veer too close or too far from Roach’s head, not noticing until the horse either nudged him gently with her muzzle or tugged on her reins, pulling on his hand back toward her. 

Geralt just rubbed her on the cheek each time, occasionally muttering softly to her, and corrected his course. 

_He can’t go on like this for much longer._ Jaskier thought, as midday was approaching and the witcher still hadn’t declared a halt. 

Almost immediately after the thought crossed his mind, Jaskier saw Geralt’s sore foot catch on a root and the witcher went down _hard_ on one knee, catching himself on his free hand with a grunt of pain. 

“Geralt!” The bard exclaimed, and leaned forward instinctively to dismount. 

Geralt whirled in place, pointing a finger at the bard. “ _Stay_.” He ordered, almost angrily. He struggled to his feet and leaned on Roach’s neck for support. “You mess up that leg, you’ll answer for it.” He doubtless meant it to sound like a threat, but his obvious exhaustion took the sting out of it. 

“Geralt...” Jaskier said, trying to sound more reasonable than worried, “Let’s stop for a bit, alright? You could... _we_ could use some rest.”

“Hm.” Was the witcher’s predictable reply. Jaskier wasn’t sure it was an affirmative, until he led Roach off the path at a grassy patch and came over to help the bard dismount. 

With a little assistance, Jaskier was able to hop a few feet over to the base of a sturdy oak and sit up against its trunk.

Geralt took Roach a short ways off and tied her on a long lead so she could snack on the grass. The witcher unhooked the nearly empty waterskin from her saddle. “Need to refill this.” He waved it toward Jaskier by way of explanation. “Call out if you see anyone.” With that, he lurched off into the trees. 

“Think we’ll ever see him again, Roach?” 

The horse looked up at him, whickered amiably, and went back to munching.

“Seems about right.” Jaskier grumbled.

He tried to rest, and he did have to admit to himself that his rear was very much enjoying the soft ground after hours in the saddle, but he couldn’t help but worry. Geralt was strong, but he seemed prepared to drive himself to the point of collapse in order to get them to...where? The next village? And what if their reception in the next village was as frosty as the last? His coin wouldn’t last them more than a few nights, even in a more agreeable setting. 

The bard sighed.

The witcher reemerged from the wood perhaps ten minutes later. 

“Finally!” Jaskier called, relieved, “I thought you’d found another drowner to fight out there.”

“Don’t joke.” Geralt said, limping up and sitting down heavily beside Jaskier against the tree. “Last thing we need’s another monster right now.” 

Jaskier could see sweat on his brow and he was breathing too heavily. 

“Here.” Geralt passed him the water skin and he accepted it with an appreciative nod. The water was ice cold and delicious. Once he’d passed it back to Geralt the witcher took a corner of Jaskier’s blanket and folded it out onto the bard’s lap. As Jaskier watched with intense curiosity, he pulled over a section of his own cloak that he’d been holding in a bundle and emptied it onto the blanket. A small pile of ripe blackberries spilled out. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier said, delighted. “That’s what took you so long?”

Geralt gave a small and vaguely smug grunt and sat back against the tree, eyes closed. 

“These are fantastic.” Jaskier smiled, teeth already purple from the juices. “You’ve got to have some, too.” 

“Already did.” The witcher didn’t bother opening his eyes. 

“Some more, then!”

“No.”

“Come on now, Geralt, I’ll have you eat some if I have to put them in your mouth myself.” 

Geralt cracked an eye open and scowled, then he carefully selected three berries from the top of the pile, ate them in one quick bite, and settled back against the tree.

Jaskier snorted at the witcher’s stubbornness. And he noted that Geralt’s teeth had _not_ already been stained with berry juice. _Liar._

Jaksier opened his mouth to further expound upon the witcher’s mislaid priorities, but seeing his friend slumped against the tree, exhausted and pained, made him pause. ‘Blessed silence’ Geralt often wished for. Well, maybe just this once.

Jaskier ate the berries slowly, enjoying the sweet, tangy flavor that started to ease his hunger pangs. 

The moment the last berry disappeared, Geralt leaned forward to check on Jaskier’s injured leg. The bard flinched in alarm, and Geralt peered up at him pointedly, “Does it hurt more than before?” He asked.

“No. I was just surprised, is all. Thought you were sleeping. It feels fine, all things considered. What about _your_ leg, Geralt? That limp’s been getting worse…”

Geralt palmed the bard’s forehead again before leaning back against the tree again with a sigh. “It’s just a flesh wound,” He said, gripping his right leg above the knee with a grimace. “It’ll heal soon enough, once I can rest it.” 

Jaskier could see a large tear in the leather of the tall boot and copious amounts of blood crusted around it. _Ever the talent for understatement, Geralt._

“You can’t take a potion for it?” He hazarded, not sure now long the poisoning effects from the previous potions lasted.

“None left.” The witcher grimaced. “And I don’t have the supplies or equipment to make more.”

“Ah…” _Well f*# &... _“...maybe we can find them in the next village?”

“Maybe.” The witcher didn’t sound optimistic. “We should get moving.” He said, the resignation in his voice palpable. 

“Can’t we rest a little longer?” 

Geralt frowned, clearly tempted, but then shook his head, “We have a long way to go. Rest in the saddle.”

_But when will_ you _rest, stubborn fool._

Geralt lurched back to his feet and made his way over to Roach. Jaskier watched as he checked the horse over with the same care and efficiency he’d shown the bard. Apparently satisfied that the horse was sound, he untied her and led her back over to Jaskier. 

“Ready?” He asked, extending a hand down to the bard.

“Alright.” Jaskier replied, resigned. He gripped the hand firmly and let himself be pulled upright. “On we go.”

* * *

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.” The witcher didn’t look back or even up this time. He appeared to be maintaining his limping momentum by sheer force of will, now. Jaskier suspected that the reason they hadn’t stopped again in the last couple hours was that if Geralt stopped he might not be able to start walking again. 

“This area looks remarkably familiar, Geralt. This isn’t, by some miracle of a chance, southern Redania is it?”

“...probably.”

“Ooooh Geralt, this is good! This is very good! I _know_ this village. I’ve been here before!”

“Really? How badly...do they want to kill you, then?” 

“Oi, that’s rich! After that last village!”

Geralt shrugged slightly, “Fair.” He conceded.

“I’m telling you, Geralt, I did _very_ well here. I’d go so far as to call the innkeeper a close personal friend. After all the custom I brought to his establishment last time he promised me free lodging should I return. Oh, and he was particularly interested in having the opportunity to meet the _White Wolf_ of tale and song.”

“Now I _know ..._ you’re lying.”

“Oh, just you wait. We are in for _quite_ the welcome.”

Jaskier twisted around in the saddle to reach for his lute case and pulled out the instrument. He gave it an experimental strum to test out the string tension, and was alarmed to see Geralt flinch and almost fall. Roach ducked her head under his arm to offer help and he paused to glare back at Jaskier.

“Sorry.” The bard said with a cringe. He plucked a few notes and tuned the lute-strings before starting into a lilting melody as they continued forward.

Drawing closer to the village Jaskier could see that he was indeed correct. They were met with friendly shouts and cries of welcome from several farmers working their fields on the outskirts, and once they were in the village proper Jaskier was greeted enthusiastically by name more than once, while whispers of ‘ _White Wolf_ ’ were uttered reverently rather than hatefully. 

Jaskier paused in between stanzas, “See, Geralt-- what did I tell you?!” 

“Hm.”

“There’s the inn, up to the right.” He pointed, but Geralt didn’t look. He trudged on, angling rightward.

From up ahead a booming bass voice cried out “ _JASKIER!_ ”

Geralt stopped Roach as an enormous mountain of a man appeared in the wide doorway of the inn. 

“It _is_ you, good-for-nothing bard…” the man was brandishing a ladle and advancing on them rapidly, his red-bearded face folded into a furious scowl.

Geralt took a step back, positioning himself between the bard and the innkeeper, one hand going to his sword hilt. 

Jaskier slipped his lute back into its case, suddenly worried. Had he perhaps misremembered his last visit to this town…? He put both hands up in a show of innocence. “Jormund, it’s so good to see you!” 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve…” The huge man stepped up beside Geralt and the witcher tensed, about to draw his steel blade, when the innkeep _winked_ and smiled in his direction before continuing, “...staying away for so long!” 

As the witcher stared in profound confusion, the innkeeper threw his arms wide. “Come here Jaskier!” He enveloped the bard in a massive hug, and actually _lifted_ him out of the saddle and set him on the ground, “Welcome back, my lad!” 

“Jormund!” Jaskier grinned and returned the hug, but then had to throw and arm over the saddle to keep from putting weight on his injured leg. He saw Geralt eyeing him with a sharp look of concern.

“And _you_ must be the famous _White Wolf_!” He thumped Geralt hard on the back and Jaskier was alarmed to see the witcher’s knees almost buckle. “The tales this one tells,” he thumbed toward Jaskier, “I thought you’d be ten feet tall and forged out of steel. Is it true you single-handedly killed a selkimore _from the inside_?”

“Hm.”

“Ha! Well, the bard did always say you were a man of few words.” He turned back to Jaskier. “So how is it you two both come off the road looking like you lost a battle with a dragon?”

Jaskier grinned sheepishly, “Well, I’ll sing you the tale soon enough, Jormund, but suffice to say-- we ran into some trouble in the swamp several days south of here.” The innkeeper grimaced in recognition, “And then we weren’t received kindly in the nearby town.” 

“Ach,” Jormund spat, “That’ll be Blanchavan. Blaggards, the lot of them. We’re ashamed to call them neighbors. I’m sorry lads.” He put a massive arm around each of their shoulders. “Of course you’ll be staying with us now, for as long as you have need. Now let’s get you inside before you fall down.” He turned to guide them toward the inn, which forced Jaskier to hop awkwardly. 

“His leg…”Geralt pointed out, ducking out of the big man’s grip and going to Jaskier’s side. 

Jormund leaned down to look. “Ho, now, we can’t have you walking on that.” He shook his shaggy mane. Then he scooped the bard up in his arms like he weighed no more than a doll. “Come along.” He told Geralt, whose usually stoic face again displayed surprise and confusion. 

“I…I’ll see to my horse.” Geralt finally said. 

“Oh, leave her to Eliya.” Jormund said, turning back around. 

“Who-”

“Hello there sweetie.” A young, girlish voice said from somewhere around Geralt’s elbow. He turned to look. A small child perhaps ten years of age was holding Roach’s muzzle in her tiny hands and rubbing her face into the horse’s forehead. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Roach,” Geralt answered for the horse.

“That’s a funny name. Is it for the fish or the bug?” She asked.

“The fish.” Geralt sounded surprised by the question.

_Huh!_ Thought Jaskier, who had never thought to ask.

“That’s cute! Who’s a good girl, sweet Roachie?” The child crooned, and led the completely docile Roach off toward the barn attached to the inn. 

“How…?”

“Ah, she’s got a way with animals, that one.” The innkeeper answered.

“I see you’ve captured another guest, Jor.” A new and rather annoyed sounding voice entered the conversation.

A short, thin woman with what appeared to be a permanent scowl materialized from behind Jormund. Had she been lurking there all along?

“Of course you remember my wife Marta?” The woman appeared to be the innkeeper’s exact opposite in every possible way, though Jaskier remembered her to be similarly, if secretly, kind-hearted. 

“Enchanted, as always, my dear lady.” Jaskier attempted a slight bow, which absolutely didn’t work from his awkward position cradled in Jormund’s arms. 

“Hm.” Her disdainful response was remarkably similar to Geralt’s preferred form of communication.

She walked up to the witcher.

“So you’re the legendary monster hunter?” She sized up Geralt with a glare that was decidedly unimpressed, “You look like you could be felled by a passing breeze.” She complained, “Come now, let’s get you inside before you fall over and I have to get the cart.” She wrapped a small but muscular arm around his waist, pulled his arm over her shoulder and started guiding him forcefully inside. 

Geralt could only offer a small, “Hm,” in answer. 

“Those two will get on like a house on fire,” Jaskier said to Jormund, “Both incurable grumps.” 

“Careful now, that’s my wife you’re talking about.” The big man warned, “‘Grump’ is too gentle a word!” His booming laugh rang out into the courtyard.

Jaskier thought he saw Marta and Geralt share a look of long-suffering irritation. 

* * *

The inn was warm and welcoming and smelled of bread and ale. 

Jormund brought Jaskier to one of the central tables and set him up with a stool on which to rest his leg. He was quickly surrounded with well-wishers and friends, new and old, many of whom were members of the innkeeper’s rather large extended family. 

Food and drink were immediately forthcoming, as it was almost time for the evening meal anyway, and Jaskier thought he had perhaps never enjoyed a plate of bread and stew quite so much. 

Geralt had insisted on his customary place in a corner, where he could observe and brood in silence. Marta, sympathetic to his temperament, had agreed and even elected to use her own prickly influence to keep curious villagers away from him as he finally got to enjoy a long-awaited meal. 

Jaskier kept an eye on the witcher, every now and then glancing back to make sure Geralt was being permitted to take his ease in peace as the inn grew more lively into the evening. Soon, however, conversation and an unending string of requests for tales and ballads began taking up all of the bard’s attention, until, after one very long song about the royal succession in Cintra, Jaskier looked over to find Geralt’s place empty. 

He peered about the room and could see no sign of the witcher. 

Worried, he waved Jormund over, “Do you know where Geralt’s got to?” He asked, “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Ah, your friend was looking poorly and Marta said he almost fell asleep in his ale, so I took him back to the room.” The big man explained.

Guilt settled into Jaskier’s gut. He’d been so absorbed in enjoying his audience that he hadn’t noticed. 

“I should go look after him,” Jaskier said. “He...he put himself through a great deal of pain for my sake.” He explained. 

Jormund answered with a sober nod. He held up a finger as though something had occurred to him, then he went behind the bar and rummaged around in the corner for something. He returned with a sturdy looking crutch. “I made this last year when Stani broke his leg. I think it should serve.” He offered Jaskier a hand and helped him up. 

Instead of taking the crutch, the bard first embraced the innkeeper in the biggest hug he could manage. “Jormund, you are a gentleman and a saint. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay your kindness.”

“Oh _I_ know how.” The big man said with a laugh, returning the hug. “You’d best believe we’ll make use of your musical talents, my boy. We may even have a job or two for your witcher when he’s back on his feet.”

Jormund handed him the crutch and started guiding him toward the back of the inn and the first-floor rooms. 

“Knowing Geralt, that’ll probably be tomorrow.” Jaskier smiled.

“Is that so?” The innkeeper frowned. “To be honest, I would have called in the doctor if he weren’t off at Thandals farm seeing to his wife. I asked Marta to put some bandages and such in the room for you, and she’s got a little medical experience herself if you have need, though I can’t speak to her bedside manner.” He smiled sheepishly and scratched his head.

“Not to worry.” Jaskier said, “With a little food and rest, a witcher can heal almost anything. It’s...just been a while since he’s had either. Thanks to you, he’ll be fine in no time.” He squeezed the innkeeper's arm. 

“Happy to help, my lad.” Jormund said warmly, “Have a good night, and see to it you _both_ rest and recover.” 

“On my honor as a lyricist.”

Jormund cracked open the door and Jaskier hobbled inside.

“ _Geralt…_ ” Jaskier sighed, as soon as he saw the witcher laid out on his bed. 

Or mostly laid out.

Geralt appeared to have given up part way through removing his armor and had fallen asleep on his side with several limbs dangling off the bed. 

_At least he got the vest off._

Jaskier could help with the rest, but he doubted his ability to manhandle the unconscious witcher up from the bed. 

He hopped over to Geralt’s side as quietly as he could manage with the crutch and then sat on the edge of the bed. As promised, bandages and basin were within reach on a small bedside table and the rest of their belongings were stacked in the corner of the spacious room. 

He reached for the witcher’s still-gloved hand and hesitated. “Geralt,” he whispered, “It’s only me. I’m going to help you off with the rest of this armor, alright? I’d very much appreciate it if you _don’t_ try to kill me.” He braced to spring back, if it came to it, and, cringing, picked up the witcher’s hand.

Geralt didn’t respond in the slightest.

_Hm._ Jaskier mused to himself. _Never seen him so exhausted._

He carefully took off the gloves, then unlaced and removed each vambrace. After that he leaned over to unbuckle and remove the remaining set of pauldrons. 

With all of the armor removed, Jaskier took the witcher by the shoulder and gently _pushed_ him over onto his back. 

Geralt exhaled a soft groan at the movement, but otherwise did not react.

Jaskier shifted over to the foot of the bed and grimaced. The boots were going to be awkward, and that injured leg… he was genuinely worried about it.

He went with the uninjured foot first and it took several tries before he was able to find a good angle for pulling the boot off. 

He moved around to the other leg and frowned. The wound and torn trousers and boot-leather were encrusted together with black blood and dirt and it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.

He fetched over the basin and bandages and tried flushing out the wound with water, but it had little effect. 

Eventually he decided there was nothing for it but to wrestle off the boot, so, using what he had learned from the first one, he positioned himself, pulled and _twisted_. The boot slowly slid off with an unpleasant squelch. 

Geralt made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a whimper, his face screwed up in pain, but thankfully he didn’t wake.

Beneath the boot, what had once been a woolen sock was saturated with black blood. Jaskier nearly gagged as he peeled it off to reveal pruned, blood-stained toes, marred in several places by open blisters from walking damp.

Finally he forced himself to pull up the dark trouser leg to reveal the wound.

He had to bite his lip hard to hold in the gasp that wanted to escape. 

He felt his eyes watering up as he finally whispered, “ _Gods_ , Geralt...you walked on this for _days_ …”

Two deep puncture wounds, clearly from some sort of fang or claw, pierced so deep into the meat of the witcher’s calf that bruises on the other side showed where they had almost gone all the way through. The wounds were an angry red and black, radiating the heat of infection, and the surrounding flesh had been rubbed raw by the repeated movement of the boot against the swollen muscle. 

“I am _so_ sorry.” He whispered to his unconscious friend. “I am going to set this to rights.”

And he did.

Slowly and carefully he cleaned out the wounds and medicated them, leaving them swathed in thick, clean bandages. He washed the unfortunate foot as well, and tended each of the many blisters. 

All the while, Geralt slept. He stirred fitfully when Jaskier’s ministrations turned unavoidably painful, but otherwise remained unperturbed by the goings-on.

Jaskier next turned his attentions to the assortment of wounds on the witcher’s chest. Thankfully, many of them had indeed almost finished healing, but a few had reopened and most of them needed cleaning either way. Finally he checked the arms and shoulders for injuries and, finding a few more, gave them the same careful treatment. 

Work finished, Jaskier sat back with a sigh of relief and regarded the sleeping witcher in the waning evening light. 

He’d be alright. Surely he would. 

He could do with a bath and a change of clothes-- well, for that matter, they _both_ could--but before that, rest in a comfortable bed for the first time in...Jaskier hated to think how long. 

Of course the witcher was lying on top of his bed’s blankets and no power of Jaskier’s was going to change that, so he reached for his crutch, stumped over to his own bed, and retrieved the blanket from it. He hobbled back over and awkwardly draped it over Geralt, tucking it in around him for good measure. 

The witcher hadn’t moved even a twitch in quite a while, so Jaskier leaned down and put his ear to Geralt’s chest to reassure himself with the sound of that too-slow heartbeat. 

He waited four seconds and heard the soft _thump_ and saw the blankets move up and down with a single shallow breath. 

Another four seconds. 

_Thump_. 

And another breath. 

He marveled at the witcher’s strange mutations, and breathed a sigh of relief at finding nothing amiss.

About to sit up, he felt something brush against his head. 

Rough fingers sluggishly carded through his hair, stroking his head in much the same way he’d seen Geralt stroke Roach’s head dozens of times. 

Jaskier laughed softly to himself and sat up, taking the hand in his and squeezing it.

The sleeping witcher murmured something Jaskier couldn’t hear and the bard felt him squeeze the hand back.

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier said quietly, warmly. He placed Geralt’s hand back on his chest and stroked the side of that sleeping face just once. “For everything.”

He thought he saw a small smile play across Geralt’s face...

...but it might have been a trick of the light. 

  
  
  



End file.
